


Violet Waltz (Here Comes the Wedding March)

by Alixtii



Series: The Blue Waltz Remixes [3]
Category: Push (2009)
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexuality, Brainwashing, Bridesmaid, Dress Up, Explicit Language, F/F, Female Protagonist, Flashback, Flowers, Hand Jobs, Handbag, Handgun, Identity Issues, Multi, POV Female Character, POV First Person, POV Original Character, POV: Cassie Holmes, Post-Canon, Post-Movie(s), Precognition, Present Tense, Psychic Abilities, Shoes, Teenage Bisexual Character, Teenage Female Character, Voice Recording, Wedding, mirror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-12
Updated: 2011-04-12
Packaged: 2017-10-18 00:09:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alixtii/pseuds/Alixtii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High-school freshman Kathy Housermann receives a recorded phone call from herself, and she finds out that nothing is as it seems--not even herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Violet Waltz (Here Comes the Wedding March)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aphrodite_mine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphrodite_mine/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Blue Waltz](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/2805) by aphrodite_mine. 



I'm in the ritzy bathroom of the hall that Helena's hired out for her wedding reception, staring at the large, wall-spanning mirror--or, more precisely, at my reflection in it. It's not as if there's anything wrong, exactly: my makeup is in place, my long, straight light blonde hair brushed and shining and with a pansy in it, my violet bridesmaid dress perfectly fitted to my figure.

Kathy Housermann, age 15, freshman at Kennedy Girl's Academy, stares back at me, the same face that's stared back at me my entire life, and yet I cannot shake this profound sense of alienation from my own image. The eyes are mine, and so is the general structure of the face, but everything else--the hair, the makeup, the dress--are suddenly utterly foreign to me, and I don't know why.

It's not as if I've never gotten dressed up before, after all. When your mother is the socialite that mine is, the process is a familiar routine, conducted again and again for countless fundraisers and meet-and-greets and debutante balls, not to mention my junior high cotillion where I got kissed by a girl (Jenny Rose Cavendish, she of the gorgeous red lips) for the very first time--and realized I liked it just as much as I liked kissing boys, if not better.

My mother sticks her head into the bathroom. "Oh, there you are," she says. "Come on, Helena's about to throw the bouquet." I'm about to point out that I'm fifteen years old--would everyone have to wait three years or more before being allowed to marry if I caught it?--when suddenly an image flashes before my eyes, me catching the bouquet, and suddenly I'm filled with the inexplicable certainty that I _will_.

I let my mother lead me out of the bathroom and join the throng of women waiting to catch the bouquet, some eagerly, some (like me) more out of duty than anything else.

Helena throws the bouquet, and it comes flying towards me. I catch it easily, just like in my vision-- _exactly_ like, every single detail the same as what I saw. Weird. Creepy.

There's some disgruntled mumbling as I take the bouquet and walk back to my table. The bride's brother, Jeremiah, who gave her away (their parents are dead) stops me and congratulates me. "Thanks," I say. "I don't think I'll be getting married anytime soon, though."

"You never know," he says, then pauses, looks at me more carefully. "Do I know you?" he asks.

I remind him that we met for the first time the night before at the rehearsal dinner, and he nods, but still looks distracted. "Well, congratulations," he says again, and I make my way back to my seat. The best thing about being a bridesmaid is I don't have to sit next to my mother.

I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, when suddenly my phone rings. I don't recognize the number but answer it anyway, grateful for the distraction.

"I need you to listen to me very carefully," a voice says in my ear before I even have a chance to say hello. Well, no, not _a_ voice. _My_ voice, or a recording of it, except I definitely know that I don't remember making any sort of recording like that. "Your name is not Kathryn Housermann," it says. "It's Cassie Holmes. You're a Watcher, and Division wants you dead."

What kind of prank was this supposed to be? I wonder.

"There is a handgun in your purse," my voice continues. Immediately, my hand slips into my handbag and, sure enough, feels the cold metal of a gun inside it. I pull my hand out almost immediately in shock, looking around to see if anybody's noticed anything. No one seems to.

"I need you to find Jeremiah Watson, Helena's brother," my voice is saying. I look around. He's migrated across the hall to the open bar; I see him drinking--not exactly nursing, either--a glass of wine. "He's a Watcher, works for Division. Be careful, Cassie, he will not hesitate to kill you if he discovers who you are."

"My name is Kathy," I say, but even as I say it the name feels unfamiliar on my lips.

Of course, the recording, unable to hear me, doesn't even pause. "Luckily Division doesn't actually know what you look like, and we've been careful about using a Shadow when planning this job, but he still may have had flashes."

I eye Jeremiah, as he finishes off his glass of wine. He doesn't look like a threat, but then, how to judge?

"Okay," says this voice of mine on the phone, this Cassie Holmes (who says that _I_ an Cassie Holmes), "you need to get Jeremiah outside. Don't pull your gun on him until both of you are outside--and once you do, you need to be prepared to fire. He'll know if you are bluffing. He'll also know if you aren't. Decide you are able to pull the trigger, and you won't have to.

"Once you have him covered, everything will be made clear. I can't tell you more; we can't let him see this coming." Suddenly, she (the other me) takes a deep breath, and when she speaks a fervent note of desperation has entered her voice. "Good luck, Cassie. It's more than just our life which hangs in the balance here. People we love are depending on you."

No pressure, I think sarcastically. I close my eyes. Nothing makes sense, but I know what I heard in her--my--voice. The fear, the desperate need, they were real.

I get up, walk towards the door to the outside. There's no one out there.

I walk over to the bar, where Jeremiah has already started on another glass of wine. "Jeremiah," I say to him. He looks at me. "There's a truck outside with a delivery or something? They say you need to sign."

Jeremiah swears, then looks at me and blinks. "Sorry," he says. "The hall was supposed to take care of everything." He follows me outside.

Once we're outside, he looks around, confused. "Where's the truck?" He looks back to me, sees the gun in my hand. "Shit." This time he doesn't apologize for his language. "You're Cassie Holmes." It isn't a question.

"So I've been told," I answer honestly, keeping the gun trained on him. It's surprisingly comfortable in my hand. "Against the wall," I order him, and for a moment he looks at me uncertainly. An image flashes across my eyes: me pulling the trigger, firing the gun, the magazine emptying into his chest, him falling to the ground, dead on impact. He must see it too, because he flinches and backs up against the wall.

A woman steps out of the shadows. I don't recognize her as one of the wedding guests, but she's dressed like she could be: light green strappless dress, high heels, matching purse, her hair up. She's in her mid-twenties, maybe, and really, really hot.

Like me, she holds a handgun in her hand which, really? Only multiplies the hotness.

"Well played, Kira," Jeremiah says, and I can tell he recognizes her, knows exactly who she is. "You've managed to catch me unawares."

"It was all Cassie's plans," says Miss Hudson, gesturing towards me. She stares at Jeremiah, and I can swear I can see her pupils expand until the entire whites of her eyes disappear completely. It's freaky. "It's so horrible what Division did to your parents, Agent Watson," she says, slowly and methodically. "You have my deepest condolences."

Jeremiah's expression changes, from angry fear to sorrowed gratitude. The tension disappears from his shoulders. "Thank you, Kira," he says. "Anything you need me to do to help to take those bastards down, just name it."

Kira smiles: a charming, pleasant smile, but I can detect the barest hint of a smirk lurking beneath it. "I appreciate that." She hands him an envelope, "Jeremiah Watson" written on the front of it in _my_ handwriting, with tomorrow's date written beneath it, and below that a time, 6:55 A.M. "Open this tomorrow before you go to work and follow the instructions inside it."

Jeremiah takes the envelope, slips it into the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket. "Done," he says. "If you'll excuse me?" he asks and, at Kira's nod, returns back inside the hall.

"So," I say to this hot woman who seems to know the other me, "are you going to tell me what the hell is going on now?"

Kira blinks, as if surprised. "Oh, sorry," she says, and then her pupils expand again, and--

"Okay," I say--I, Cassie Holmes, Kathryn Housermann a distant illusion fading away, like waking up from a dream (a good dream or a nightmare, I'm still not sure). "That's fucking weird."

"You remember who you are now?"

"Yeah," I say, "I think so." After all, how can I be completely sure? But I can remember Cassie Holme's memories now: my mother being abducted by Division, meeting up with Nick and then Kira in Hong Kong, travelling with Nick to America, the first time he and I and Kira had sex. I remember--

 

 _"This guy's trouble," Kira said, as she looked at the drawing I_ (Cassie, I'm Cassie, I know I'm Cassie now, I've always been Cassie except for the brief time when I wasn't, but now I am again, and I was then, too) _placed on the table. "Jeremiah Watson, the guy they got to replace Carver on heading our case. Second-generation Watcher, trained by Division since he was a child. Good enough at what he does to know to keep away from me while I was inside Division, after I killed Carver."_

 _I nodded, Kira's description matching everything I saw. "He's convinced Division that we pose too much of a threat to be captured alive. He wants us dead."_

 _"So we kill him first," Nick said with a shrug._

 _But I shook my head. "If we kill him, all our chances of taking down Division disappear. We need him Pushed."_

 _Nick crossed his arms. "If he's as good as you two say, there's no way Kira's going to be able to get close enough to Push him without him seeing her coming."_

 _"So we Push me and send me in first," I said, knowing--without even needing to be a Watcher--that Nick would object, claim it was too dangerous, but also that it had to be done._

 

"Yeah, I remember," I say. I glance down at "Kathy Houserman's" violet bridesmaid dress. "I remember that I wouldn't be caught dead in a dress like this," I add. "And I'm dying my hair back as soon as I get home."

Kira's smile is mischievous. "I don't know. The look looks good on you. Pretty."

I stick my tongue out at her. "Fuck me."

Kira's smirk doesn't disappear. "Gee, Cassie, can't you at least wait until we get home?"

I hadn't meant it that way, of course, but now that she's suggested it--"No. The bathroom. Now."

Kira obligingly follows me into the women's bathroom. She pushes me into one of the stalls, and up against one of its walls, leaning down to mash her mouth against mine even as she uses her left hand to lock the stall door behind her. Our tongues explore each other's mouths, and kissing Kira is a heck of a lot better than manufactured memories of Jenny Rose Cavendish. She leaves a line of kisses down my neck, then follows the line of my clavicle down to my dress's neckline while grabbing my ass with her hand.

Kira steps out of her heels, then squats down so that I'm staring down at her, she up at me. She never breaks eye contact even as her hands slip under my dress, pull down my underwear--which turns out to be pink, because Kathy Housermann is a fucking Barbie clone--and a few seconds later her fingers are on my clit.

Kira's fingers are--well, I don't believe in magic, but, yeah, I've seen enough things which shouldn't exist outside science-fiction movies to wonder if she doesn't have a special ability even in addition to being a Pusher. "Faster," I whisper, but she just smiles and keeps the same speed, fuck her.

The want, the hunger that's been gnawing away at me ever since Kathy first set eyes on Kira calls out for satiation. She smiles, asserting herself, but at last takes pity on me and lets me come. I let out a long breath.

The bathroom door opens, and I can hear a voice call out, "Kathy? Are you in here?"

"Shit," I whisper to Kira. "It's Mrs. Housermann." Kira looks at me not understanding. "She thinks she's my mom," I explain.

"Who is that in there with you?" Mrs. Housermann asks, her voice frenetic.

Kira unlocks the stall door and steps outside. "It's all right, Mrs. Housermann," she says, and her pupils are already beginning to grow.

"All right?" Mrs. Housermann asks, hysterical. "You're violating my daughter, and you tell me it's all right? We'll see what the police have to say--"

"You don't have a daughter, Mrs. Housermann," Kira gently reminds her.

"I don't have a daughter," Mrs. Housermann repeats, slightly dumbfounded. "I don't have a daughter."

"You just came in here to use the bathroom. You've washed your hands, and you're about to leave. You didn't see anyone in here."

Mrs. Housermann exits the bathroom without another word.

Kira sighs. "I have to Push every single person out there now, don't I?"

I shrug.

She washes her hands, then slips back into her shoes and exits the bathroom. I follow her out. The lights are dim and a slow song is playing. "Dance with me?" Kira offers.

"Always," I agree. I slip my arms around her and we begin to dance. She lets me lead.

I look up and the whites of her eyes are missing, as she Pushes every person in the room, one by one, erasing their memories of Kathy Housermann.

Good riddance, I think, as we move slowly on the ballroom floor.


End file.
